Broken (Manhattan Ruthless Book 1)
Chapter 38

Staring into my glass, I swirl the amber liquid around the bottom and think of Mel waiting at home for me. Sitting on the sofa in her favorite yoga pants and one of my sweatshirts while she watches some sappy movie. A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. If I didn’t have one last meeting tomorrow morning, I’d jump on the jet and go home to her right now. By the time I’d get back, she’d be sleeping, and my cock aches at an image of crawling into our warm bed, parting her thighs, and sinking inside her warm pussy.

“You want to join me for another one of those?” a sultry voice says in my ear.

I shake my head, not bothering to give the owner of the voice even a cursory glance. “No thanks.”

“Aw, come on.” She caresses my arm. “Not even just a little one?”

I shrug off her touch, looking at her for the first time, and hold up my left hand. “I’m married.”

She glances around the almost-empty hotel bar. “Your wife’s not here though, is she?” She giggles and flutters her eyelashes.

“Doesn’t make me any less married. Go bother some other guy and leave me the fuck alone.”

She huffs dramatically and sashays toward the other end of the bar.

“She’s in here every night looking for her next mark,” the bartender says with a dry laugh as she picks up my empty glass. “Can I get you another?”

I should go to bed, but it’s hard to sleep without Mel next to me these days. I can’t remember a time in my adult life when I was dependent on another person for anything. A part of me hates the vulnerability of it, but for the most part, I like having someone to miss.

I guess one more Scotch won’t hurt. It might even help me sleep.

Jesus fucking Christ. My pounding head drives me from sleep, and my aching eyeballs throb their protest at the sunlight streaming through the open blinds.

A sleepy moan echoes in my ears, and I close my eyes again. Someone is lying beside me. Instinct, or maybe it’s simply the fact that I know my wife’s body and scent so well, tells me it isn’t Mel. Bile burns the back of my throat. I throw back the covers and jump out of bed, but the sudden movement only makes it worse, and I spew my guts out onto the thick gray carpet.

“Are you okay?” a woman asks.

I tune her out, hoping she’s a figment of my imagination, and sink back onto the bed. My stomach rolls and my chest heaves, but I swallow down the urge to vomit a second time and swipe the back of my hand over my sweaty forehead.

“Can I get you a drink of water?” the voice asks.

I turn around. She’s sitting up and the sheets have fallen from her body, exposing her breasts. I’m naked too. Motherfucking fuck. What the fuck is the bartender from last night doing in my bed?

“What the hell are you doing here?” I bark.

She pulls the covers over her chest, and her lower lip quivers like she’s about to cry. “What? We … well.”

I jump up and pull on my boxers, which were hastily discarded on my side of the bed. My stomach rolls again. Please tell me we didn’t … “What happened? Did we—” I scan the sheets and floor for used condoms and don’t see any, but I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

“We fooled around. You were too drunk to do anything else.” With a huff, she climbs out of bed and gathers her clothes.

I close my eyes and try to piece together what happened last night. This is not who I am. I wouldn’t cheat on my wife, not even if I didn’t have the kind of feelings for her that I do. I’m not a fucking cheat.

Except a naked woman just got out of my bed, so what exactly does that make me? I bury my face in my hands and focus. I remember her pouring me a couple glasses of Scotch and telling me about her parents’ ranch in Montana. I have a vague memory of laughing over a shared hatred for country music, but that’s it. I have no fucking idea how we went from that to being naked in my bed together. No fucking clue at all.

“I don’t remember anything,” I groan.

“Really? Nothing? I mean, I know you were pretty wasted, but …”

Sitting up, I scrub a hand through my hair and fight the constant urge to vomit while trying to engage the logical part of my brain to come up with a reasonable explanation that doesn’t involve me cheating on my wife. She’s fully dressed now, so I give her my full attention. “I told you I was married, right?”

She shrugs. “Married guys come through here all the time. Means nothing.”

Rage simmers beneath my skin. I stand and take a step toward her. “It means something to me.”

She fixes me with a glare. “It didn’t seem to mean much last night, asshole.” She snatches her shoes from the floor and, without bothering to put them on, storms out of the hotel room, leaving me standing here naked, about to pass out. My knees buckle, and I collapse onto the mattress.

I cheated on my wife. My sweet, caring Mel, who was waiting at home for me while I fucked around with some random bartender. What the fuck have I done?

I look around until I replace my phone on the nightstand, and my heart sinks through my chest when I see her goodnight text. How the fuck do I tell her what I did? Despite how we started out, I know this will break her heart. It’s damn sure breaking mine.

I suck in a deep, calming breath. I can fix this. I can explain that I got so drunk that I … that I what? I don’t even know what the fuck I did with that woman. How far did fooling around go? Did I kiss her? What parts of her body did I put my mouth on? I lurch for the bathroom and barely make it to the toilet before I heave up the remaining contents of my stomach. When there’s nothing left to throw up, I sink to my knees, press my damp forehead to the cool plastic seat, and pray to every entity I’ve ever heard of that I can replace a way to make Mel forgive me.